Monthly Archives: June 2015

This bit of erotica comes from a work in progress, the infamous Holy. My apologies for the lateness, because of course if you hadn’t noticed this bit of Friday Fun is coming on Tuesday. But…better late than never! (And of course, remember, this sort of Friday Fun is NSFW!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Matti.”

“No. No – I – I’m not Matti. I’m Matti for you, but I -”

Artemio stared at him, then reached out with his other hand and brushed blond hair away from his eyes, sucked in a breath and let it out on a long sigh. “Yeah. I know. ” He took another breath and smirked faintly. “I know who you are, Sraosha.”

Not for the first time, Artemio tasted incense, the serenity and the sacrifice of some ancient offering long vanished. Then he dragged Matti close with the grip he had around his throat, kissed him bruising hard and shoved him back against the wall.

He gave in to an impulse that had been tormenting him for weeks, slipped his mouth from Matti’s lips and down to his throat, his shoulder, bit hard and sucked blood to the surface. Matti bucked against him, cock suddenly rock hard, his whole body vibrating with his moans, and Artemio chuckled, pulled his mouth away and admired the dark bruise he’d left. “Fuck me, but you do want it. What’d I do to deserve you, huh?”

He slid his lips further up Matti’s throat and did it again, sucked at the gleaming skin, twisted his fingers in Matti’s soft blond hair and pulled hard. Matti pushed up against him again, begging for friction, groaning, muscles wiry with tightness and desire.

“Gonna mark you up, Matti. Next time somebody sees you on the street with me, know what they’re gonna say? Know what they’re gonna ask us?”

“Wha – what?”

“Nothing. Cause you’re mine, all mine, and it’s gonna be all over you.” Artemio bit him again, further along his shoulder where he knew the collar wouldn’t cover, sucked heat to the surface, then moved his mouth lower. He pushed Matti’s vest back off his shoulders, bit the burnished skin again and again, then lifted his head and nudged Matti away. Artemio put his own back to the wall and reached down to undo his belt.

Matti went to his knees without even being asked, lifted his hands to unzip, unbutton, tugged Artemio’s pants down around his hips and reached for the waistband of his boxers. “May I – may I -”

“Gonna ask now? When you’re already touching? That’s no good.”

“Master. Sorry, I’m sorry-”

“You can be sorry later. Finish what you started…since you started.”

Matti bit his lip, half-worried, half-eager, slipped his fingers under the waistband and tugged them down. He leaned forward and nuzzled his cheek against Artemio’s cock, stared up at him, waiting, waiting …but Artemio could wait. Now – now, he could wait, because it was making Matti crazy, his fingers trembling against Artemio’s thighs, breath quickening, body leaning forward while he licked his lips.

This bit of erotica comes from Wolf of the West, and continues where the Lick from the smutty 17th left off! (And of course, remember, this sort of Friday Fun is NSFW!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Connor—don’t—”

But Marcas’ voice was rich with groaning, and his cock twitched under Connor, where it was pressed against his belly, hot and hard.

“You want me to leave you like this?”

“I’m not going to take you—not now—”

It was Connor’s turn to laugh at him. “But what if I wanted something else?” He pushed Marcas’ tunic up to his chest, then further, until Marcas leaned up under him and pulled it the rest of the way off. “What if I want to taste you, Marcas?” He bent and kissed Marcas’ throat, licked at his pounding pulse, sucked warmth to the surface, then bit his shoulder.

Marcas bucked under him, and Connor grinned, lifted his head so Marcas could see it. “Fair’s fair.” But there was no pain in Marcas’ expression, just heat upon heat, and Connor sucked in a breath. “Or maybe not.” He slid back onto Marcas’ thighs and reached between them for his cock, wrapped his fist around it and stroked slowly.

Marcas groaned and reached out to grasp his thighs, tried to hold Connor still, but he slid back and back, until he was between Marcas’ legs, not on them. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of Marcas’ inner thigh, then leaned up and wrapped them around his cock.

Marcas jumped under him, then lay back groaning. His hands crept up to tighten in Connor’s hair, pulled on it, urging him onward. Connor experimented with the speed of his tongue, the pressure of his lips. This was something new—the taste of Marcas, the smooth skin ridged with veins under his tongue, but he liked it. The way Marcas moved under him, the way he grasped at Connor’s hair, his panting groans.

Marcas’ fingers in his hair guided his head, tightened against his scalp when he found a particularly sensitive place. Connor used his tongue to trace that spot again and again, soft strokes while Marcas thrust into his mouth, until he cried out and Connor tasted salt and bitter heat, felt Marcas’ cock pulsing on his tongue.

The fingers wrapped in his hair relaxed, and Connor pulled back and crawled up to lie by Marcas’ side, licking his lips and grinning widely.

“Connor…hmm.”

Whatever Marcas was going to say faded into his yawn. He reached out and pulled Connor close to his side, onto his chest, yawned again and closed his eyes.

Connor lay quiet, uncomplaining, listened to the heartbeat pounding under his ear and wondered how long this golden time would last.

This Lick comes from Wolf of the West, a standalone novel currently available here! Remember, Licks are NSFW excerpts, so read carefully – and look forward to another erotic excerpt on the smutty seventeenth of next month!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just Marcas’ kiss was almost enough to bring Connor over the edge. When Marcas pulled back again, Connor was glad, not wanting to make a fool of himself, but the next moment he thought it might not matter. He felt a single one of Marcas’ fingers moving over the entrance of his body, circles that teased with a dip inward, never really penetrating, stimulating nerves new to sensual sensation. His other hand gripped Connor’s cock at the base, stroked slowly.

“Marcas—Marcas, please, I’m—”

“Close?” The word was a growl that came close to his skin. “Good. You like when I touch you, Connor?”

“Yes.”

“You like when I touch you here.”

Slowly, the finger penetrated, and there was both pleasure and faint burning. “Yes…“ Marcas pressed deeper, and Connor let his head fall back against the ground. “Oh yes.” The feeling was wholly new, different from any way he’d ever touched himself or been touched by any lover. “Please, Marcas, more.”

He felt more stretching him, knew it was two fingers inside him now, but the slow pace of Marcas’ stroking didn’t change. Gods. He’d been wanting for so long that it was all he could do to keep himself from really begging, but Connor’s body wouldn’t obey like his voice did. He moved his hips against Marcas’ fingers, into his fist, reached up to grip Marcas’ shoulders with both hands.

He had been teasing himself before Marcas came—what Marcas was doing now was driving him to distraction. Connor slipped his hands down Marcas’ sides, pressed his palm against the rigid throbbing of Marcas’ cock.

“Want you, Marcas. Want more—want you—”

The fingers moving in him thrust faster, sharper. The fist wrapped around his cock squeezed tighter, sped its strokes, and Connor lost his words to gasps and moans. He stared up into Marcas’ eyes and felt another surge of heat. So good, the fingers inside him, the fist wrapped around his cock—and the way Marcas’ looked at him, hungry, panting wolf in the back of his gaze, as if he would swallow Connor whole—

So good.

“Marcas, you—you—please—“

The words were barely coherent, but Marcas laughed at him still, his voice almost hoarse with wanting.

“No, Connor. No more than this. Not now.” He flicked his gaze up to meet Connor’s eyes. “Not unless you want more fingers inside you.”

“Yes—anything, yes—”

Connor heard Marcas groan, then gasped as he pulled two fingers away and pushed three back inside. It was almost too much, slow burning stretch, deep feeling, but too much wasn’t enough.

“So tight, Connor. So tight around my fingers, how will I fit my cock in you?”

Connor squeezed the thickness of Marcas’ cock under his hand, felt his fingers inside touch something hot with pleasure. He groaned and bucked up twice into Marcas’ fist, fire spreading everywhere inside him, a shattering ecstasy. He felt the wet warmth of his own essence on his chest, his belly, and over him Marcas trembling—trembling so that Connor was able to pull himself back, away from fingers and hand and the heat of his body, and tumble him back onto the grass.

To begin, may I say that the title of this post and the entirety of its contents are entirely the fault of two things?

1. I’ve been listening to “Werewolves of London” on repeat. You know, THIS lovely piece of pajama party dance track:

2. Ireland is awesome and voted gay marriage into a thing. A thing that people can do. WOO.

Because of these two things, Marcas, the faoladh who stars in Wolf of the West, decided it was time for me to write his and Connor’s wedding. (And this blog post.) I have enough books in the works without a sequel for that one too, but I can’ t help myself. I’m under the command of numerous imaginary figments, and Marcas can howl loudly when he wants to!

So, the actual point of this post is…faoladh! Marcas is one, which is why he’s such a pain – and the rest of the wolves of the west are, too, which is why they are such a pain. The faoladh are the werewolves of Ireland (technically of the Ossory area and not really Dublin, but could YOU pass up that pun? Didn’t think so.) and unlike most werewolves, the faoladh are heroic, instead of monstrous.

Are you a child alone at night, all by yourself on your way home and afraid of the dark? A faoladh would guide you home, protect you from predators and the the danger of the dark. A wounded warrior, perhaps the last survivor of some honorable battle? The same goes for you, because the faoladh are the protectors of the lost, and the wounded.

Rather than being cursed lycanthropes with a lust for flesh (though we’ll see about that ‘cursed’ bit in a minute), the faoladh are people, generally associated with Ossory and the nearby regions of Ireland, who choose to take on the shape of a wolf for seven years, protecting the land.

This was of course a dangerous occupation, as nothing separated one of the faoladh in wolf-shape from a normal wolf. In some of the folklore, the faoladh had the ability to speak human language , and this could protect them – if they weren’t thought to be sidhe or stray spirits. Still, there is more than one story about faoladh being hunted down, all unknowing, by those they had sacrificed so much to protect.

Remember up there I mentioned curses? Well, part of the legend of the faoladh that was changed under the influence of Christianity relates to their origin. Rather than servants of an ancient god, or chosen protectors of man, the faoladh were men and women who had made fun of a Christian saint. (Some stories say St. Natalis of Ulster…some say St. Patrick.) Because they had howled like wolves at the saint’s sermon, they were cursed to stay in the shape of wolves for seven years.

Personally, I like the older version, which made the faoladh volunteers performing a sacred duty. Considering that in all versions, they’re good creatures, helping and protecting human beings, I like to think they came into being with some dignity!

If you want to read more about the foaladh, and ancient Irish mythology in general, try Wolf of the West! The main character Marcas is faoladh, and I had fun exploring the folklore to come up with a consistent portrayal of my favorite kind of werewolf. After all, how often do werewolves get to do anything but eat people or kill vampires? (Not that that isn’t fun too!)

This teaser of smutty goodness comes from Undone, to celebrate the end of the blog tour, and because it’s smutty goodness. (And of course, as it’s smutty, that means NSFW!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re perfect.”

The words slipped out of Tighe’s mouth and Faelan relaxed at the sound of them, some of the tension dissolving and what remained, all sensual tightness. Tighe kicked his trousers the rest of the way off his legs and waited only for an instant. Then Faelan was over him, on him, .

Faelan’s thighs sprawled open across his hips and the length of his cock pressed tight and hot against the rigid thickness of Tighe’s own erection. Faelan pressed down, leaned forward and rolled his hips so that the slick head of his cock rubbed back and forth against the pulsing nerves in Tighe’s.

His mouth moved across Tighe’s chest, over his collarbone, licked at the red bruises he’d left. Pleasure made his eyes dark and darker, the shining flecks deepening from amber to mahogany dusk, the green near-black, barely distinguishable from Faelan’s dilated pupils.

Tighe let his head fall back against the grass and traced the lines of lean, slender muscles in Faelan’s arms while he moved over him. Faelan braced himself on one hand, reached out with the other and entwined their fingers. He leaned up again, a shift of pressure and angle that let him kiss Tighe’s mouth even as the movement of his hips drew out a gasp. Faelan moaned faintly, breathed hot words close to Tighe’s ear.

“How much more. How much more will you give me? Prince, how much more?”

“More. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. It’s too good to stop.”

Perfect friction, perfect touch. Tighe gave in to his own urges, reached his fingers into Faelan’s hair and pulled him down against his mouth, kissed him again and again. The fire that lived inside him was seeping to the surface of his skin, and around them he saw the air rich with luster.

As I have the power, I gather for you in one place the many posts I have written, as I dart from place to place and day to day along my blog tour! Here, originally at “Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words”, is Stop One on the Undone blog tour!

Out of the woods, he comes as if he knew that we were there. Dark haired, dark eyed, the sound of his voice is a song that comes faint over the shallows. Only the music carries, not the words, but that is more than enough to begin tying down the enchantment.

He is gancanagh, love-talker, and the sweet of his words can imperil as much as the sweet of his skin. He walks the edge of the water, slow steps that signal his readiness to stop, to wait – for the slightest reason, or no reason. It is the beginning of his game. Already the women among us are turning to him, lifting their eyes, their hands, fingers curled as if they could touch the softness of his hair from where they stand.

The beasts and beings that do not belong to the human world are dangerous monsters, most of them, but this one is dangerous because he is not a monster. Because he is beautiful – because, as long as he stands smiling, it is easy to believe he could be tame.

The air turns sweet, beguiling dust moving in motes golden as honey. The taste of it flows like wine on the currents of the breeze. He stares at us, and then at one among us, and the woman who has caught his eye is still as a statue despite the deck rocking beneath her, despite the whipped up surface of the sea.

We turn away from the shore, before the sugar in the air overcomes her – before it addicts her, turns the core of her being to nothing more than a seeker after that dust. He watches, and the sound of his laughter follows us.